


Mission Report 13.10.27933

by alamorn



Category: Dredd (2012)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Light Femdom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, The Hall of Justice Makes Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 18:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18371546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Anderson never had any delusions about being just any other Judge, but the Chief Judge still managed to surprise her.





	Mission Report 13.10.27933

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Happy Smutswap thedevilchicken! All of your prompts are so amazing that obviously I panicked and wrote something only barely related. Hope you like it anyway!

Anderson could count the number of orgasms she’d had on one hand. That was putting it optimistically, actually — she’d had two. One unpartnered, one partnered. One was in her permanent records.

Her mutation might not have left her disfigured, but it had left its mark on her all the same. When she’d masturbated, her orgasm had shivered her right out of her head. She’d been unable to close out anyone’s thoughts in a half mile radius. When she’d had sex, she’d scrambled her partner’s brains. She still kept tabs on him, though she didn’t get too close, for fear of causing a relapse. He had enough of his mind back that he could work the Cubes without issue.

So when the Chief Judge told her they were going to be running some experiments, Anderson started to sweat.

“With all due respect, sir,” Anderson said, staying carefully in her own mind as the Chief Judge grinned, “I’m not sure what results we could get that would be worth the danger.”

“Well,” said the Chief Judge, “psychically bonded Judges are what we’re hoping for. We’d also like to increase your range, and your control over a wide range. And practice makes perfect.”

“But—“ Anderson started. “Sir—“

“Are you questioning me, Anderson?” the Chief Judge asked mildly.

Anderson stated miserably at her boots. “No, sir.”

“Do you have a preferred partner? One will be assigned if you don’t.”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

Anderson glanced up at her, saw the amusement and the steel in her eyes, and looked back the toes of her boots. _Was_ there anyone she would prefer to do this with? She didn’t have any romantic attachments, barely had any friends. The idea of being assigned a — a fuck buddy? A lover? What was she supposed to call it? The idea was awful, and it made dread curl in her stomach and — there was one person she trusted.

“Judge Dredd, sir?”

She didn’t have her powers locked down well enough, because she could feel a wave of satisfaction come off the Chief Judge. Something told her she would have ended up with Dredd even if she hadn’t picked him. Psychically bonded Judges, she remembered. Of course the Chief Judge would want one of her best.

The Chief Judge didn’t make Anderson give Dredd the news, which she counted as a kindness. Instead, she was sent to the medical wing, where they took her helmet, armor, gun, and boots, and handed her a thin, open-backed gown, a towel, and a razor.

“You’ll want to shave,” the medical tech told her. “We’re going to be attaching a lot of electrodes, and they get clearer readings without body hair.”

“My head as well?” Anderson asked, keeping her tone even. If she had to shave her head, it would not be the worst thing to happen this day.

The tech looked her over. “No, we’ll just take off a small patch at the base of the skull. Everything from the neck down, though.”

Anderson nodded and went to the shower. It took a long time, since she didn’t normally shave anything. The razor kept getting clogged with hair. And the water was a lukewarm trickle. All in all, it was such a mundane sort of misery that she almost forgot to be nervous about what was coming after. Almost.

What had possessed her to ask for Dredd? They’d only worked together a few times since her assessment, and passing her was still the only thing he’d done that suggested he didn’t resent her presence.

When she was done shaving, she toweled off and put the thin gown on and headed back into the lab. The air felt strange on her smooth skin. She was deeply aware of the breeze. Her skin felt over-sensitive.

The tech pointed her to a padded examination table and took her towel. She sat very still as the man shaved an inch of hair from the base of her skull and started attaching the electrodes.

“I’ve worked with muties before,” he told her. “Psychics, even, though none as strong as you.”

“Oh,” she said, uncertain what else there was to say.

“Just in case you were afraid these were all for show,” he said, as he attached another electrode to her spine. “We’ll wire you up before everything gets started, get a baseline. You put a guy out of his head, right? Last time you did this?”

“Yes,” she said. The goo he was using to stick the electrodes to her was cold and slimy. She stared at her hands.

He hummed. “Then you won’t climax this session.”

“This session?” she asked. “How many are there going to be?”

“As many as it takes,” he said with a shrug. “I’m going to need to you to lift the gown to your waist now.”

Numbly, Anderson did so. He attached an electrode on her pubic mound, the cold goo stinging the freshly shaved flesh.

“You can lower the gown,” he said, and moved to her thighs.

He wired her up when he was done, and she felt like a pinned butterfly on display. She didn’t look at the monitors, just stared at the ceiling. It was a mission, like any other, and far less dangerous for her. It was ridiculous to feel vulnerable just because she was naked. She’d been using group showers and undergoing treatment in rooms just like this since she’d been a new trainee.

She was on the verge of convincing herself that this was pretty much the equivalent of a pelvic exam and no more stressful when Dredd came in. They’d taken his helmet and gloves and gun and left him his armor and boots, but she’d have recognized him from the scowl alone. All the same, she was fairly certain he felt as vulnerable as she did. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Anderson sat up straighter, trying to come to attention without pulling off any of the electrodes, or loosening any of the wires. “Judge Dredd,” she said.

“Anderson,” he said, glancing around the room like he was sweeping it. An image of a tech jumping out and trying to hook _him_ up to monitors danced through her head, and pulled some of the tension from her spine.

Before he could say anything else, the tech glided over to him and took his hands, turning them this way and that. “Judge Dredd,” he said, as Dredd glared at him. “You’ll have to wash your hands. I’m sure the Chief Judge debriefed you?”

“Yes,” Dredd ground out. He wasn’t allowing himself to be ushered to the sink, instead standing like a rock while the tech waved him over. “I was surprised to hear the Hall of Justice is taking up skinsport.”

The anger that rolled off him was so wide as to be directionless. Anderson hoped that meant the Chief Judge hadn’t told him she’d requested him by name.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, as the tech reared back, looking insulted. “It’s my fault any of this is happening.”

Dredd grunted and went to the sink, the anger pulling back under his skin. Not gone, just controlled. And under it…she wouldn’t push, not yet, but she wasn’t sure either of them would have a choice when all was said and done.

Dredd showed the tech his hands and Anderson found herself watching them. He had long fingers and broad palms, and they would be on her soon. Despite herself, a different kind of tension coiled in her stomach, one that she couldn’t attribute to nerves.

“Good,” the tech pronounced them. “Now, given the results of the last time Judge Anderson orgasmed during sex, we’ll be stopping you before you reach that part. No one else will be in the room — there’s cameras there and there, and we’ll be speaking to you through an intercom from the monitoring room. The walls here are lead-lined, so if Anderson loses control, the backlash will be minimized. There will be a questionnaire, after, to judge the effectiveness. We do have porn, if you need help achieving arousal.” He glanced between them and Anderson fought the urge to duck her head.

“No, thank you,” she said.

Dredd just grunted.

“In that case,” the tech said. “Happy testing.” He didn’t leer when he said it, which was the only reason Anderson was able to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter. The click of the door latching behind him was very loud in the quiet of the room.

Dredd still didn’t look at her, staring instead into the middle distance, jaw working like he was trying to grind the situation between his teeth.

“So,” she said, to break the silence. “Worked any interesting cases lately?”

He snorted and finally looked at her. It was strange being able to see his eyes. She couldn’t quite tell the color from this distance. “Murder is never interesting.”

“It’s not all murder,” she said. “There’s also drugs, kidnappings, theft, blackmail, destruction of property… The list goes on.”

He took a step towards her. His voice, when he spoke, was pure business. “How do you like to be touched?”

“Did they warn you?” she asked. “About what happened to Aidan?”

“The Chief Judge brought him up to meet me.” His scowl deepened. They hadn’t made him shave, and she thought about his stubble on her thighs, not sure if she liked the idea or not. “He’s almost fully recovered.”

“Well, it has been six years,” she said. The tension that wasn’t anxiety was long gone and she just felt cold and awkward.

“How do you like to be touched?” he asked again, insistent.

“I don’t,” she said. Then, “Your mouth.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw and he went to his knees between her thighs. She spread them a little further, hands clutching at the thin gown over her thighs. He put one hand, startlingly hot, on her ankle, shifting her legs wider still. His stubble rasped over the thin skin of her inner thighs and he began, firm pressure and hot tongue.

Even if the contact hadn’t sent her powers spiking, she would have known this was his first time. He was clumsy, though not hesitant, and what he was thinking could not be put into words.

She wasn’t sure if it was the knowledge, the even pressure, or the tightly leashed anger and lust that sent a spike of desire through her. Whatever it was, she relaxed minutely, aware of her wetness when a pulse of surprise and arousal passed from Dredd into her.

They stayed like that, a frozen tableau save for Dredd’s hand tightening around her ankle and his mouth working over her core, until the tension rose in her, and a voice crackled over the speaker. “Stop.”

Dredd pulled away, and the reluctance she felt from him had her shooting him a tentative glance as she closed her knees and drew down the gown. His mouth and chin were smeared with her wetness and his pupils were large. His jaw worked incessantly, and she pulled her powers still closer to her, horrified by the temptation to read his mind. When her eyes fell, his cock was straining at his leathers.

He didn’t look at her, but she couldn’t keep from knowing he was thinking about her.

 

The questionnaire was dully humiliating, mostly because answering the questions forced her to be vividly, excruciatingly aware of how her pulse was throbbing through her cunt, how it didn’t matter how tightly she leashed her powers, she could taste herself on the back of Dredd’s tongue. He kept running his tongue over his teeth, an obsessive gesture, like he was trying to strip away the tastebuds, or chase every last trace of her from his mouth. He was as present in her mental landscape as if he was sitting next to her, close enough to lean over and look at his answers, instead of two rooms away.

The experiment was, thus far, a success. It would be repeated. If Anderson was a good friend or partner, she’d be dismayed by that, apologetic, deeply sorry to have dragged Dredd into it. Instead, she found she was…eager.

 

They went through a week of work as normal. Drug busts, murders, some hate crimes. Long days and longer nights. They weren’t partnered, and their shifts remained as they had been; different precincts, overlapping only occasionally.

The only difference was that Anderson could sense Dredd from a much greater distance. Two miles, through countless feet of concrete and the buzz of thousands of other minds, and she could locate him without a thought, the second she closed her eyes.

She blinked and was with him as he slammed a perp’s face into a wall. A thrill of danger shot through her, an awareness as if she was in the room herself. “Perp to your 7o’clock,” she whispered. “Loading armor piercing rounds. He’s never shot them before, doesn’t know the recoil.”

She opened her eyes and was back in her own body, moving steadily through the halls of a Megablock to an apartment with five years of smell complaints. The scent of decay let her know she had the right floor and her pace quickened without conscious thought.

She knocked. “Bernard Cevoy, this is Judge Anderson, investigating complaints about your apartment. I’d like to talk.”

Ugly intent spiked within the apartment and she flattened herself to the wall next to the door as a shot tore through it. Then she was moving, kicking through the door and tackling the suspect as he tried to dart past her. She cuffed him as he swore at her, then startled violently.

She had sensed no one, but there were people in the room, sitting still on the couch, leaning against the walls. It took one square look to understand why she hadn’t sensed them.

They were taxidermied, poorly, the signs of their death clear and proudly preserved. Ligature marks so deep that the skin had torn and been stitched back together with thick red thread.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and was with Dredd, shaking off a medical officer as he tried to reach for the pain radiating from Dredd’s thigh.

“That you, Anderson?” he said.

“Seems to be, sir,” she said, off-balance at the feeling of the perp struggling beneath her, her eyes shut tight, and simultaneously of the pale midday sun bathing her face, the throbbing pain of the furrowed wound on her thigh.

“Good intel,” he said. “Would rather you didn’t do it again.”

“Understood, sir. No promises, sir.”

He frowned deeply, and she felt her own face mimic the lines, her own lips tight, her own brow furrowed. “You need back-up, Anderson?”

“No, sir. Got it handled.”

And once she opened her eyes, she did. The perp was strong enough to hunt the elderly, the frail, the young, not strong enough to fight off a Judge in her prime. It was waiting for the meat wagon that was hard, as the perp spat insults at her and she searched the apartment for more bodies. They filled every room, posed artistically. One leaned at the sink, miming cleaning the dishes. One reclined in the bed, arm placed seductively behind her head. Her breasts had been enlarged after death, and Anderson took a moment to twitch the sheet up to cover her.

Judgement hovered in the back of her mind. Her disgust said it should be death, but she’d taken him alive, and she liked to send them to the iso-cubes when she could. There were already enough dead bodies in Megacity One without her making more. But this was not a man she could see being reformed by his time in the system.

She closed her eyes.

“Dredd?” she said.

He was on his Lawbringer, the wind whipping his face, and he answered with barely a twitch of shock. “Anderson. Change your mind on backup?”

“Seeking a second opinion on a Judgement.”

“You’re not a rookie anymore. I can’t tell you what to do on your own case.”

“Looking for input, not direction,” she said, and gave him the details.

He was quiet for a long moment. “More than twenty counts of murder, desecration of a body, hoarding of resources, necrophilia, and attempted murder of a Judge. The sentence is death.”

“Thanks, sir,” she said, and opened her eyes.

She took a deep breath and went back into the living room and passed judgement. She didn’t bother updating the meat wagon. She hadn’t given them an exact count to start with.

 

For the second session, she found herself enjoying the decontamination shower more. She’d spent her entire personal hot water allotment scrubbing the stink of the poorly taxidermied victims off her skin and out from under her nails, but she still felt she smelled of formaldehyde and rot.

After the decontamination shower and the shaving, she smelled only of antiseptic soap, which was far more pleasant.

While the tech attached the electrodes, he said, “This time, we’d like you to have an element of penetration. It can be digital at this point, if you’d prefer.”

“Alright,” she said, in order to say something. She closed her eyes and was with Dredd, coming up in the elevator.

“You don’t think we’ll be seeing each other soon enough?” he asked, staring placidly at his reflection in the stainless steel doors. She almost fancied she could see her own eyes behind his visor, but that was as impossible as seeing his.

“Just hoping you cut your nails,” she said. It was meant to be flat, a way to let him know what was coming without having to say the words, but it came out with a curl of flirtation. He shifted his stance, and she opened her eyes, thrust herself back into her body.

When he arrived, he glanced at her, and went straight to the sink, washing his hands thoroughly.

“Good,” the tech said. “Use at least one finger. We’ll let you know when to stop.”

Dredd’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything, just staring flatly until the tech coughed and left the room.

He took his time coming over to her. “Thanks for the save,” he rumbled. She could almost imagine his voice was fond, though she had her powers so locked down that it was just a hunch.

“Thanks for the input,” she replied.

“You knew what to do,” he said.

“Still. The second opinion was helpful.”

He grunted. “My mouth again?”

“If you don’t mind.”

He snorted, a wave of mixed amusement and anger rolling off of him.

“I don’t…taste bad?” she asked as he knelt, unable to keep herself from doing so, embarrassment twisting around her throat like a garrote.

He stared at the skin of her inner knee, where a bruise the size of his thumb bloomed purple and blue. “No,” he said eventually, before grasping her ankle with one hand. The other he set on her cunt, tracing a finger from her clit to her opening.

Before he could start to push, she tried to clamp her knees together. “Not yet!”

When he glanced up at her, she blushed. “I’m not — it’ll hurt if you do it now.”

“Ah.” He moved his hand away, and bent his head to drag his tongue up her slit, a burst of heat and wetness that let her legs fall farther open. He was a quick learner — and she could not help but know that he’d dreamed about this, thought of it, had considered her reactions and his approach. He was less clumsy than before, though so controlled she couldn’t call him eager.

And when she relaxed, and he could taste her wetness on his tongue — a taste that had lingered in his mouth long after it should have faded, a taste he’d found himself craving — he slid his finger in. It was a shock of intrusion, though not an unpleasant one. She clenched experimentally, and he paused, surprised by the sensation, then kept working. They didn’t speak — somehow that was a barrier she couldn’t bring herself to cross, though his emotions were as thick and present as the smell of her arousal.

He slid his finger in and out, curled it — she could feel his broad knuckles, the roughness of his callouses catching at the thin skin of her entrance. Sensation was strange, both because it was new, and because she was getting echoes of his own sensation. She felt and was felt and could feel that too. It was hard to separate them out — was it her wrist the wetness was running down, her clit hard and sensitive to a brushing thumb? Or was that a cock, pushing against her pants, so hard she ached for any relief?

“Stop.”

It took a moment for Dredd to follow the command, a moment where Anderson pitched perilously close to orgasm. She forgot, for a moment, why she shouldn’t allow herself over the precipice. Why not grind her hips against his hand, take the last bit of pressure she needed?

Reeling herself in was not painful, but it was more frustrating than she’d experienced since she was first training her powers. Her awareness wanted to linger with Dredd, in his muscles as well as his mind. But he stood, and went to the sink, and she brought her gown back down over her empty, aching cunt.

“As always, sir,” she said, voice carefully controlled, and still sounding more debauched than she wanted, “working together has been a pleasure.”

If her nerves had not still been singing with the aftershocks of Dredd’s emotions, his grunt and quick exit would have stung her. She would have thought she’d overstepped. As it was, she could sense his amusement. And his arousal — he was going, once he was done with the questionnaire, to masturbate. He planned to put the finger that had been in her cunt into his mouth.

Her own mouth was dry.

She went through the questionnaire with ill-grace.

 

The next twelve hours of her patrol were harder than it had been since she was still a rookie. It was difficult to stay in her own head, especially with how the blood pulsed in her clit still. But allowing herself into Dredd’s head would push her over the edge, and besides, it was an invasion. She was not so far gone as to deliberately step into his mind for some relief.

She focused instead on the work before her, channeling her frustration into the job. It was a great relief to be sent to manage a shoot-out that had disrupted traffic on one of the great concrete arteries of traffic.

There were three overturned cars and six perps crouched around them. Three more were already dead, blood and gore spread across the northbound lanes.

“Citizens,” she called through the Lawbringer’s loudspeaker. “Cease and desist immediately. You are in violation of the law.”

“Fuck you, bitch!” one of the men called, spraying bullets in her general direction without taking the time to aim. He had a tattoo of a snake crawling up his neck, posed in a strike that left it always about to devour his right eye, which struck Anderson as garish, even for gang tattoos.

She sighed and took cover, then started to pick her way around the edge of the killing field. “Attempted murder of a Judge,” she began the list. “Murder. Assault with a deadly weapon. Unlawful discharge of firearms. Impaired driving. Failure to clear lanes after an accident. Probably another dozen things I’ll think of later. Minimum charge, fifty years iso-cubes. Maximum punishment, death. You know, I can see why they don’t see any point in giving up easily.”

Stubbornness kept her from using her powers — stubbornness, and a twinge of fear that she would find herself in Dredd’s mind, instead of the perps she was hunting.

Without her powers, it was a hard, dirty fight. Though most of the citizens had cleared the area, there were too many to want to risk a grenade, armor-piercing, or Hi-Ex, so she had to creep around, picking them off one by one. By the time a bullet whizzed close enough to her head to leave her ears ringing, the blood had finally left her clit. If that was all it took, she'd be fine -- Judges risked death every day. It would just be a pity if what pushed her over the edge was being too horny to concentrate.

The man with the snake tattoo was the last. "Your judgement is death," she said, took aim, and fired. She called re-cyc as she drove away, ears still ringing.

She needed -- well, she still, somehow, needed to come, but she was trying not to think of that.

A car came from the side, slamming into her. With the shock of the impact, she slipped out of her head and slammed into Dredd's. She couldn't feel her body, though she'd seen enough accidents to know what was happening. Given the angle, she'd have gone up over the hood, rolled into the windshield, shattering it.

If she was unlucky, they were backing up now, letting her body fall to the ground, and running her over.

"Shit," she said, and heard Dredd's voice. "Shit! If I die and get stuck in you -- shit!"

And Dredd, whatever was out there bless him for the practical old bastard he was, said, "Where are you?" with no concern for what his own goal had been.

She gave him her location and he turned his Lawbringer in a maneuver that left cars skidding to a stop behind him. He was closer than she'd thought, and when he arrived, she saw that she'd been unlucky, but not so unlucky as she feared.

Another man with a snake tattoo had gotten out of the car and straddled her unconscious body, slapping her face and calling her names. There weren't particularly inventive, but there was something deeply horrifying about looking at her own unresponsive body.

"You killed my brother you ugly Judge cunt!" the man cried, slapping her again and pulling a gun. "The fucking judgment is fucking death, you stupid bitch!"

Dredd shot him in the back of the head without fanfare and swung off his bike, pacing over to kick the man off Anderson's body.

He squatted next to her, arms braced on his knees. "Got any spinal damage?"

"I don't know," she said, "I was out the moment I got hit."

He sighed. "Best not to move you, then. Don't talk while I call it in."

She didn't respond and he grunted in -- oh, his thoughts were right there, she hadn't noticed them before, too consumed with her own, but now she couldn't ignore them. He was amused. He was worried. He was angry, angry, always so angry, but this time was angry that she'd been hurt, that she'd been careless, that he was so worried. And there was a tenderness she shied away from, sure that if she pressed he'd feel it like a bruise.

He waited with her body. They watched it breathe, and worried together. Blood darkened her bleach blonde, returning her to her brunette roots. He wanted to touch her hair but didn’t want to jostle her head, in case her neck was broken.

What a fucking nightmare.

When the medics arrived, he stood and thought, _should I go with you?_

Anderson desperately didn’t want to let her body out of her sight. But if she said yes, that was that many more crimes not being dealt with.

_No_ , she thought and he shivered. _I’m sure I’ll find my way back as soon as I can._

 

Riding along in Dredd’s head as he worked was everything she’d thought it would be. He was a force of nature, one of the best Judges in the City. It would have been easier to appreciate if she hadn’t been deeply aware that she might be dying.

Until, between one breath and the next, she was staring at a pale green ceiling, a color chosen to promote calmness and healing, her whole body hurting worse than she’d ever hurt before.

She keened with it, and a medic appeared. “Ah, you’re back with us. Good to see you, Judge Anderson. You’re just taking a break between medi-gel baths for the new tissue to stabilize.”

“How bad?” she croaked.

He made a face. “I’ve seen worse. You’ll be fine by the end of the week. No bits lost, just rearranged somewhat.”

That was rather how it felt. Like everything had been broken, shaken up, and poorly reconstructed.

“Light duty for a week after that,” the medic continued. “But two weeks and you’ll be ready for street duty again.”

Two weeks. That _was_ bad. The worst injury she’d had previous had been a shattered foot and it had only taken two days to set her to rights.

“I need,” she said, struggling with her dry throat, “to make a report.”

“After you’ve finished the second round of baths,” he said easily. “Judge Dredd already made the preliminary for you, so there’s no rush.”

When had he done that? Not while she’d been in his head. Had she lost time? That was…an uncomfortable thought.

He pressed a button and painkillers slid into her and she slid into unconsciousness, as easy as you please.

And she — she _dreamed_. She was in the corner of the Chief Judge’s office, watching Dredd make a report, though she couldn’t hear what he said, and she couldn’t feel anything. Was this what it was like, to be normal? The world was so small, so quiet, so _lonely_.

And then she was in the corner of Dredd’s room as he walked in the door. His room was what she would have expected, if she’d ever thought about it. A narrow bed pressed against the wall, blankets neatly tucked, no decorations anywhere, nothing extraneous. He set his helmet down as he came in, then glanced up at the corner where she hovered, mute and stuck.

“That you, Anderson?” he asked, pulling his gloves off. His fingers were as long and pale as she remembered, and suddenly, even disembodied, she ached to be filled. To fill. To _touch_.

She tried to answer, to call out to him, but there was something stopping up her mouth and she couldn’t. He frowned.

_It’s me, I’m here_ , she tried to say again.

He shook his head. If she could hear his thoughts, what would he be thinking? _Stop jumping at shadows, old man?_

He unzipped his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. And then he unzipped his pants and sat on the edge of the bed, facing the corner where she hovered. He pulled himself from his pants, still soft. She’d never seen his cock before, and she wanted so badly to touch it.

He stroked himself to hardness quickly, and then he slowed, switched hands, slid his right index finger into his mouth. The finger that had been in her. He closed his eyes.

There was no sensation in this experience of hers, no body to feel it, but she felt sure that the force of her lust could hammer through whatever bound her here.

When he came, he opened his eyes, staring at her, and pulled his finger from his mouth with a soft, wet sound. Would it sound like that if she took him in her mouth? Oh she _wanted_.

“Stop wasting time, Anderson,” he said.

She opened her mouth to beg him for help and found herself gasping for breath back in the hospital bed.

She was on desk duty a day later. The day after that, she was in the blank room once more. This time, instead of an examination table, there was a bed. Narrow, white sheets, two thin pillows. No blankets, no homey comforts. Under her hospital gown, she wore only bruises.

It wasn’t a surprise. The medics had done their jobs well, and her body was whole, if tender. Her paperwork had always been sub-par, even more so than the rest of her marks. And, of course, the Chief Judge had been very interested in what had happened Anderson was unconscious.

She was finally going to get to come. The wing had been evacuated for a hundred feet in every direction. She was alone, save for Dredd on his way to her in the elevator.

He didn’t fidget, didn’t do anything he hadn’t done a hundred times before. If there had been any witnesses, they never would have guessed he was nervous.

Anderson didn’t need to guess. She was as present in his head as she was in her own, a curious split awareness, not as disorienting as she might had worried. It was like the helmet’s display, his mind layered over hers, not obscuring or distracting, just enhancing.

He wasn’t nervous that she would destroy his mind, though she was. He was — and Anderson almost had to laugh, alone in an empty room, waiting for him — nervous that he wouldn’t be able to make her come.

Performance anxiety, from Judge Dredd. Who would have thought? Though she supposed that it was his right. He’d never made anyone else orgasm before, and there were more eyes leveled at them than bore thinking about.

When he entered the room, she looked up at him, not quite smiling. “You’ll have to be gentle,” she said. “My ribs are still bruised.”

With that, she dropped the gown.

He took an involuntary step towards her, hand twitching up before he regained himself. After a long moment, where he sent her nothing so well-formed as thoughts, he took off his helmet and his gloves, dropping them carelessly to the floor. She’d never seen him treat his equipment carelessly before. It would have made her smug, if she’d had enough distance for it.

Only then did he approach her. His hand hovered in the air over her hip, a deep purple that streaked up into yellow over her waist and then into a profusion of blues over her ribs. The medics had covered her road rash with a fresh skin mesh, and it stood out from her own skin, pink and healthy and shiny with newness.

The roiling, wordless force of his emotions stole her breath, and she stared at him, mouth open just the slightest bit, like she could taste his heart already. The tip of her tongue tapped the back of her teeth and his hand traced a delicate line from her navel to the dip of her collarbone. His hand flattened on her sternum.

“Get on the bed,” he said, voice rough.

She got on the bed. She had to go flat to her back, because her ribs throbbed too painfully to breathe when she was in any position but prone or standing straight, but she could lift her head and watch him approach. He hesitated when he reached the edge of the bed, staring at her. He was a curious mix of frank and shy, not quite able to look at her face or breasts or cunt, instead lingering on the sharp cut of her collarbones, the tendons straining under the skin of her throat, the ungraceful knobs of her knees.

“Your mouth,” she said, or thought, but either way _demanded_ , and he sank to his knees like he was grateful.

She wasn’t sure which of them arranged her so her hips hung off the edge of the bed, her feet flat on the floor, his shoulders pressing into the soft skin of her inner thighs, but there was a pause where his breath washed hot over her bare flesh, and it _hurt_ to prop herself up to see, so she sank back and, staring at the ceiling, sank her hand into his hair and gripped tight, dragging him down into her.

He went without resistance, following her lead here like he followed her in the field, and when his tongue dipped into her entrance, one of her legs shifted to circle him, heel pressing hard into his back, the leather creaking under the strain. No retreat, not today.

The tension in his muscles mounted, but his tongue stayed soft on her clit, circling and circling until she felt the precipice yawning before her. If she was going to destroy him, she wanted him to be within her, wanted to consume him as he shattered.

It was an unkind impulse, and she couldn’t tell from which of them it had originated. She didn’t need to tell him to stop, to climb on top of her, to sink within, the girth of him pushing her breath out.

For the first time they were face to face. From this distance, his eyes were unmistakably green. When he blinked, his lashes were long and dark. His brow was furrowed with concentration and habit, and with a surge of tenderness, she grasped his face and drew him into a kiss.

His lips were hard under hers, but they softened as she pressed, fingers stroking the thin skin behind his ears. When his mouth opened under hers, she chased the taste of herself from his tongue, and the thoughts from his head.

And from her own.

When she came back to herself, she was slumped on his chest, ribs aching, his cock softening inside her. Years of tension had been sapped from her spine. The only thought that was able to penetrate the soft stupidity of her post-orgasm was _had she killed him?_

Not literally. He breathed beneath her, chest rising and falling steadily, his heart beating its comforting rhythm against her cheek.

“Sir?” she said, trusting him to understand the question.

“Anderson,” he rumbled. “I’m not interested in pillow talk.”

“Understood,” she said, not bothering to hide her smile.


End file.
